Page 8 of The Light Year

Barbie and Carrie have a long-standing Wednesday morning coffee date at the Romans' house, and they always pour a cup and sit at the kitchen table or on the patio to gab while Huck plays amiably with whatever of his brothers' toys Barbie has dragged out to occupy him.

"Of course," Barbie says with a laugh. She holds the door open wider and Carrie follows her in, tossing her long, straight brown hair over one shoulder as she spots Huck playing in a patch of sunlight on the living room rug.

"Hi, little guy," Carrie says, ruffling Huck's soft baby hair as she passes by. "I bet you're glad to have Daddy home again, huh?"

Huck breaks from his game and looks up at her at the mention of his father, then goes back to stacking colored blocks and talking to himself about big trucks and brown horses.

"Patio?" Barbie asks, leading the way into her kitchen, with its red-painted cabinets and white counter tops. Her wedding china is emblazoned with a pattern of strawberries and daisies, and she loves how fresh and unstuffy it feels after a childhood of Wedgwood china and understated elegance. Barbie pours two mugs of coffee and follows Carrie outside, where they can see straight through the patio door and into the living room and keep an eye on Huck while they talk.

"Okay, you know I'm not one for idle gossip," Carrie says, leaning back in her chair and crossing her feet at the ankles as she holds her coffee mug in both hands. "But what is this business going around about Bill Booker kissing some woman at the Cape?"

Barbie's jaw drops. "What? I haven't heard a word. Oh, I don't know, Carrie," she says, shaking her head. "I'm not sure I even want to hear it if it doesn't come from Jo directly."

"Well," Carrie says with a shrug, putting her mug to her lips. "It's out there, and the rumor is circulating."

"Did you hear that from Jay?"

"No, he's just a regular guy," Carrie says, flapping a hand at Barbie. "He comes home and wants to talk about work stuff, not theactualinteresting things going on there."

Barbie isn't sure what to say, but she's uncomfortable at hearing the news, and she doesn't really know what to say to it. It reminds her of a time, many years ago, that rumors were circulating around Westport about her own father, and she has never forgotten how her mother felt, having to go to dinner parties and fundraisers with a smile on her face, rubbing elbows with the same women who spread the gossip from ear to ear like some sort of communicable disease.

In fact, there had been a time, when Barbie was twelve, that she was worried her father might move out and leave the family. Her mother spent every evening locked in a guest bedroom ina different wing of the house from the master bedroom and from George Mackey's office, and any time Barbie walked by the closed door, she could hear her mother crying quietly to herself. There was shouting in the house, and Barbie overheard various accusations from her mother about her father spending time with other women. It had been scary and confusing for her. Ultimately, her mother had ended up with a new amethyst ring the size of a quarter and she'd eventually come out of the guest room and rejoined them at the dinner table, but things had never been quite the same between her parents again.

Barbie wants no part of contributing to that same scenario for poor Jo, who does not deserve to have women—especially her friends—passing around tidbits like this nonsense about Bill kissing someone at work.

"Listen," Barbie says, deftly changing the subject. "I wanted to hear more about that protest you were talking about last week. Who was it for?"

"Clarence Triggs." Carrie sets her coffee mug on the table and levels her gaze at Barbie. All frivolous chatter about Bill and Jo falls away instantly. "He was found shot in the head. It was the Klan," she adds in a whisper, looking around as if someone might be listening to their discussion. "It had to be. And the fear is that nothing will happen--that no one will be held accountable."

Barbie's eyes narrow as she listens. "So what did you do to protest?"

"We went to Tallahassee and marched on the capitol. We were on the news and everything." A grin spreads across Carrie's face. "I helped organize the whole thing, and I know we're not changing what already happened, but we need to let our government know that we will not stand for the outright murder of our citizens."

Barbie shifts her gaze to the still water of the swimming pool, then turns her head to get a glimpse of Huck in the living room; he's still thoroughly engaged in building block towers.

"You're right," Barbie agrees. "That is definitely not okay."

Carrie is watching her from across the patio table. "I'd love to have you join me at a protest or a march, Barbie. If you're interested, that is." She holds up a hand. "No pressure whatsoever. I know not everyone feels personally connected to the cause or to civil rights in general. I’m also working with a church not far from here that could really use our help, so if you want to pitch in on something like that, I’d be thrilled to have you with me there, too.”

Barbie knows that Carrie's words are meant to let her off the hook, not to make her feel as if she doesn't care about other people, and she nods.

"I think I'd like that," Barbie says. "I would."

In her mind's eye, when she thinks of civil rights, she pictures Neville and Winnie. Sheispersonally connected to the cause. She does care about how people--all people--are treated in America.

At the thought of Neville and Winnie, the night before her mother's birthday in 1944 comes back to her. She'd crept back into bed with the cookies that Neville had stolen for eight-year-old Barbie, eating them carefully and brushing all the crumbs onto the floor, just like he'd asked. The last thing Barbie remembers is falling asleep happily, her eyes glazing over as they scanned the dollhouse across the room. Her final thought before sleep washed over her was of the miniature mother in the dollhouse--the one in the apron. Had she been baking cookies for her children? And if so, would she always make sure they had some after school or before bed?

But the next day... that's the day that is still memorable for Barbie, over twenty years later. She'd kept herself busy allday as the servants and hired staff had cleaned and decorated the house, and every wonderful smell imaginable had emanated from the kitchen. But Barbie knew instinctively to stay away, lest she draw Winnie's ire for being underfoot.

By dusk, the partygoers were arriving in full evening attire, and her mother had swept down the staircase in the most beautiful rose-colored chiffon dress that Barbie had ever seen. The house glowed with lit candelabras, and the staff wore starched uniforms with aprons for the women, and gloves for the men. A string quartet played at one end of the giant sitting room at the front of the house, and everywhere Barbie looked, glamorous adults held champagne flutes as they talked in muted voices and laughed at jokes she knew she wouldn't understand.

Barbie hid behind couches and peered into doorways as she made her way through the house, remembering how Neville had helped her hide from her father the night before. It had been a fun game then, but now it appeared Barbie was the only one playing, and that even if she weren’t hiding, no one would have paid her any mind.

“She married him for money, you know,” one woman was saying to another as Barbie sidled up to them, hands laced behind her back. Barbie’s blonde hair was pulled back in a black velvet ribbon, and her white taffeta dress had a matching belt made of black velvet. She knew she looked pretty and like a well-behaved little girl, so she smiled at the adults who noticed her, most giving her a distracted half-smile before turning to pluck a fresh drink from a silver tray.

“Of course she did,” the other woman whispered. “And that’s why she’s staying, too. Can you imagine putting up with the nonsense that comes with being married to George Mackey?”

This got Barbie’s attention: the women were discussing her father. She stopped and pretended to admire a potted plant along a windowsill, keeping herself within listening distance.

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